


The Keys

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Feels, First Kiss, M/M, Magic Realism, Teen rating for tobacco use language and general teenaged rebelliousness, dads being dads, mild annoyance of a security guard, misdemeanor breaking and entering, questionable use of australian slang, teenagers pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 12:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15751713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe
Summary: When Jesse McCree's mother passes away, he is forced to leave the US to live with his estranged father overseas, and spend his senior year of high school attending the private preparatory academy at which his father is the Dean of Students. Frustrated by the school's expectations and his father's attempts to parent him, he goes out of his way to rebel and be generally defiant. One day, he hears a strange and haunting melody being played on the old piano in the school music room. He investigates, and what he finds changes everything.





	The Keys

The first time he hears it, he’s hiding behind the school’s music practice room, sneaking a cigarette between classes. The soft, sweet melody floats out the open window to caress his ears like a whispered secret—something intimate, precious, meant only for him. But of course, this is an illusion. Whoever is playing the old piano has no way of knowing Jesse is listening. It’s probably some underclassman taking advantage of the rare time when all the senior students are in other classes, since they have priority when it comes to the practice room.

Jesse doesn’t practice at school. Not at this one. He can’t bear the idea of being seen actually trying by the other students. His entire image would be ruined. And it’s important for a young man to maintain his rebellious image when his father is the head of discipline at the school he attends. What would people think if he started behaving himself? They’d think “Oh, that’s Mr. Reyes’ kid, of course he’s a goodie two-shoes,” is what. And Jesse can’t abide that.

He barely knows the man, anyway. They met a couple of times in his life, when his mother made him come out of his room and be polite. And now Jesse is stuck living in his house and going to his school and being made to follow all kinds of rules by the guy who knocked up his mama and ran out on them. Fuck him.

So Jesse smokes at school, flaunts his tattoos, and engages in general delinquency at every opportunity. Not enough to get him expelled (he’s not an idiot), but enough to make Mr. Reyes lower his black eyebrows and give one of those pained sighs before Jesse slams his bedroom door and turns on his music real loud so the old man don’t hear him crying. He’ll be damned if the fucker gets to hear Evelyn McCree’s boy cry. No one gets to hear that.

It’s the song that’s making him think of her, anyhow. It sounds like her. Like a gentle echo of something that ain’t there anymore, but you loved with your whole soul when it was. Only it ain’t. She ain’t. She’s been gone almost six months now and she ain’t coming back and no amount of bawling over a dumb bit of piano poking is gonna change that. But he lingers and listens anyway, almost perforce, as the delicate strains tug at his chest and caress that deep, longing ache in his lacerated heart. It feels like homesickness and loss and pain and love and sweetness and comfort all at once.

He decides he hates it. Fuck this stupid song and whoever’s playing it, anyway. Stuck up snobs at this fussy-ass private school with their starchy uniforms and good grades and shocked gazes as he saunters by with his sleeves rolled up and his collar undone and no tie on. He hops up, angrily dashing away a tear and grinding his cigarette butt under his black motorcycle boot. He glances up at the open window once more, then he stalks off to be as late for class as possible without being marked absent for the period.

 

After school, he refuses a ride home from Mr. Reyes, and walks to the main drag of the little oceanside town to buy cigarettes, browse records at the one and only record store, and try to kill enough time to miss dinner. After idling about the book shop for a while, he begins to be actually hungry, so he buys a chocolate bar at the convenience store, then heads toward home. Mr. Reyes’ house, that is. Not his real home.

As he reaches the crest of the hill that separates his neighborhood from the town center, it suddenly begins to rain. Not a light sprinkle gradually picking up momentum, as he is used to, but a full-on torrential downpour all at once. Cursing the weather in this island nation, he steps hurriedly under the eave of a darkened house. He eyes the rain doubtfully as he lights a cigarette. Hopefully it’ll let up in a few minutes so he can finish his walk without getting soaked to the skin.

“Quite the heavy rain we are having this evening,” a voice says from somewhere in the darkness near him.

Jesse whirls around and looks about confusedly, heart pounding in his throat. A man emerges from the deep shadow under the eaves. He is Japanese, handsome and well-built, and maybe about thirty-five years old. He is dressed in a black yukata and he wears his hair in a short, fashionably tousled style.

“Holy shit, where’d you come from?” Jesse pants. “I ‘most jumped right outta my skin.”

“I came from inside. This is my house,” the man says, in heavily accented English. He bows. “I apologize for giving you a fright. I had only just come out to smoke and I watched you hurry to shelter beneath the eave. I did not know that you could not see me.”

Jesse returns the bow awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to trespass or nothin’, sir. I was just tryina get outta the rain. I’ll get goin’ now.”

“Nonsense,” the man smiles. “You are welcome to stay and smoke with me until the rain eases.”

“Well, alright,” Jesse says. “Thank you, sir. Uh…I’m Jesse.” 

“Genji,” the man says, with another bow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Jesse.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Genji,” Jesse replies, returning this second bow.

He feels supremely ridiculous bowing like this, and he wonders how much more of it is going to be required during this conversation. The man draws a cigarette from a silver case, then lights it with a matching lighter.

“You are American,” he says, exhaling a blue plume of smoke. “Have you been long in Hanamura?”

“I been here about a month,” Jesse says. “My ma passed and I come to live with mister—my pa.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Genji says. “It is very painful to lose a family member. Even more so a parent.”

He sighs and gazes out into the rain, with such a melancholy look in his eyes, that Jesse wants to ask him what’s wrong. He keeps offending people here and he’s not sure if that’d be exactly polite, though, so he lets it pass. He watches the man from the corner of his eye. Seems strange he’s so sad when he’s so good lookin’ and got this big-ass house. There’s loneliness hangin’ all off him like vines. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to chat with him a little.

“Yeah, I loved my ma more’n anything,” Jesse says. “I stayed with my nana in the states for a while after she died, but my pa wanted me to go to the fancy-ass music school he works at, so I had to come here when the spring term started.”

“Ah, yes,” Genji nods. “The Shimada Academy is an excellent school. What is your instrument?”

“I play guitar. I mean, my ma made me learn piano and shit, but I don’t reckon there’s much use for it unless I want to play at stuffy old cocktail parties.”

“The guitar is a good choice,” Genji says. “But the piano is the foundation of all stringed instruments. And I find it quite beautiful.”

“Oh, I ain’t sayin’ it can’t be…pretty,” Jesse says awkwardly. “Only I’m tryina play in a band and I don’t think I’d like to haul one around to shows and things.”

“It is alright, Jesse,” Genji smiles. “I understand that the piano has less appeal for a young man like yourself, than for an old man like me. Ah, look, the rain has stopped.”

“Good thing, too,” Jesse says. “I was supposed to be home for dinner. Thanks for lettin’ me hang out and jaw at you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Genji says, with yet another bow. “Have a good night, Jesse. Goodbye.”

Jesse returns the bow. “You too. Bye, Genji.”

He glances back at the grand, sprawling mansion of a house as he heads off down the street. He wonders if Genji’s got any family. The place looks pretty dark from out here. Almost like no one’s livin’ in it.

The remainder of the walk back to Mr. Reyes’ house only takes about ten minutes. Much to Jesse’s chagrin, he finds dinner waiting untouched on the table, and Mr. Reyes sitting there chatting with Mr. Morrison, the conservatory’s principal. Figures he’d have the other stuffed-shirt senior faculty member over. Jesse can’t get away from school anywhere. And why in sam-hell does one school need a dean and a principal, anyhow? Just to have an extra old man to make sure the students ain’t havin’ any fun?

“Jesse, there you are,” Mr. Reyes says. “You were supposed to be home before dinner. Where have you been?”

“Got caught in the rain,” Jesse says, as he hangs his hat on the peg and removes his boots. He makes a valiant attempt to stride past the dining room and head toward his room, but Mr. Reyes stops him.

“Jesse, say hello to Mr. Morrison, please,” he says. “We’ve kept dinner waiting for you.”

“Howdy, Mr. Morrison,” Jesse mumbles, slumping into a chair.

“Hi, Jesse,” the offensively cheerful man says. “How are you liking school so far?”

“It’s fine,” Jesse says.

“Are you fitting in with the other students?”

Jesse eyes him over the rim of his glass. “I’m poor, white, and about a foot taller’n everyone else. I look like I fit in to you?”

Mr. Morrison’s smile fades and he exchanges glances with Jesse’s father. “Well, Jesse, there’s nothing you can do about your height. But you’re not poor.”

“And you’re not white,” Mr. Reyes adds.

“I meant I ain’t Japanese,” Jesse shrugs. “All the kids at the school come from this or that important family with castles and airlines named after ‘em and shit. They know whose son I am and they don’t let me forget it.”

“Jesse, my position at the school is highly respected,” Mr. Reyes says, with a frown. “There’s no reason for the other students to treat you badly for being my son.”

“I know that,” Jesse says. “But it’s still workin’ class. To me, that’s a thing to be proud of. To them, it’s another thing to hold over my head. Plus, I don’t speak Japanese too good, and they act like it’s on account of me bein’ brung up in the wild with no education or somethin’.”

“Jesse, your father and I have been talking, and we have an idea for how to help you transition more smoothly into the school environment,” Mr. Morrison says. “There’s a student in your grade who is willing to act as a sort of…culture ambassador for you. She’ll help you learn Japanese customs and the language, and she can talk to you more on your own level, since she’s your age. She has a free period when you take calculus, and she’s willing to sit in on that class with you. She’ll also be available to study with you after school.”

“I don’t need anyone to help me make friends,” Jesse protests. “Specially not some stuck-up square who’s gonna look down her nose at me. Besides, I got friends already.”

“You mean Mako Rutledge and Jamison Fawkes,” Mr. Reyes says disapprovingly. “Those boys are nothing but trouble. I don’t like you spending too much time with them.”

“Just give her a chance, Jesse,” Mr. Morrison says. “She’s a smart, popular young lady and I think she’ll be able to help you a lot.”

“You mean you think she’ll be a good influence,” Jesse grumbles. “Fine. I’ll meet her. But she better not try and make me wear a tie.”

“You should be doing that on your own. The school uniform is—” his father begins irritably, but Mr. Morrison stops him with a look.

“That’s settled then,” Mr. Morrison says to Jesse, flashing his bright, blue-eyed smile. “Her name is Angela Ziegler. She’ll meet you before calculus tomorrow and show you around some of the extra-curricular programs after school. I really think you two will hit it off.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “Can I go do my homework now?”

“Yes, you are excused,” Mr. Reyes says.

Jesse drags himself out of his chair and slinks off to his room. He shuts the door, but he doesn’t slam it this time. He doesn’t want to get yelled at for embarrassing Mr. Reyes in front of his boss. Not that Mr. Reyes has ever yelled at him, but he looks like he wants to sometimes. He puts on his headphones and sets about doing his calculus homework, which is almost laughably easy, but he takes care to make it look sloppy and miss a couple. Can’t let it look like he’s tryin’, or they might start thinkin’ he cares.

An hour or so later, he slips out of his room to get a glass of water. The lights are mostly off and Mr. Reyes and Mr. Morrison are in the den watching something on TV. It’s pretty dark, but as he rounds the corner, Jesse is almost certain he sees Mr. Reyes hastily draw back, as if he had been holding Mr. Morrison’s hand. They look up at him, but he ignores them and continues into the kitchen to get his glass of water. He drinks it quickly, then hurries back to his bedroom, keeping his eyes resolutely on his feet as he passes the den.

Soon after, he hears Mr. Reyes saying good night to Mr. Morrison and the front door opening and shutting. Then Mr. Reyes’ footsteps come down the hall and hesitate outside Jesse’s closed door. Jesse glares at it. He has absolutely no wish to hear whatever bullshit Mr. Reyes wants to give him about it, like he’s stupid and don’t know what he seen. He don't want to talk about school, or his attitude, or Mr. Morrison’s opinions (which Mr. Reyes is often in the habit of informing Jesse about, whether he is interested or not), or anything else, neither. He don’t give a damn and he wants to be left alone. He breathes a sigh of relief as the footsteps begin again, going away toward Mr. Reyes’ bedroom. 

 

 

Jesse arrives at school the next morning dreading the meeting with this student ambassador. His status as an outsider is the only thing he’s got, and he doesn’t like the idea of having some nanny leading him around like he’s actually making an effort to learn how to fit in. He can’t figure how to get out of it now. Mr. Reyes had reminded him on the way to school, so he can’t say he forgot. It’s not until third period, though, so he has something of a stay of execution in which to dream up an excuse for blowing her off.

His first two classes are political science and chemistry, in both of which he is doing passably well despite the language barrier, because Mr. Reyes bought him the English language editions of the textbooks, and he’s always been able learn whatever he sets his mind to on his own. The advantage of this fact is that he can maintain his rebellious image by being conspicuously inattentive in class, and still get good enough grades so no one can say boo to him about it.

In chemistry, he sits at a table with Mako and Jamison, who are both from Australia and are the only students on campus as anomalous as Jesse. They are the best rugby players in the region, so the school tolerates their rowdiness and almost clownish antics, so log as their rebelliousness never crosses into actual hooliganism. They are also fun to hang out with, unpretentious, and not afraid of Jesse in the least. He lingers in the hallway to make sure he’s late for class, then saunters in and takes his seat as the teacher begins the lesson.

“Oi, Jesse,” Jamison whispers, as he sits down. “We got some news for ya.”

“Oh yeah?” Jesse whispers back. “Good news or bad news?”

“Depends how you look at it, mate,” Jamison says mysteriously. “It’s about the band.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “Well? Spill. I ain’t got all day.”

“We got us a real live gig. Mako’s mum knows the bloke that owns the bottle shop and he knows the bloke that owns the dance hall. They got a cancellation and he says we can have the spot. And it ain’t for two months, so we got plenty of time to tee up.”

“I dunno,” Jesse says doubtfully. “We don’t even have any of our own songs. Y’all think we can be ready by then?”

“That’s the beauty part. We don’t have to do any original material,” Jamison assures him. “We’ll spit shine some covers and bob’s your uncle. It’ll be a ripper, mate.”

“Alright, then,” Jesse smiles. “Let’s do it.”

“Practice after school?” Jamison asks.

“Yeah, that sounds—shit, I forgot. I gotta do some school shit. Tomorrow?”

Jamison eyes him suspiciously. “School shit, eh? What for?”

“Mr. Reyes and Mr. Morrison is makin’ me hang around with some girl—I don’t wanna explain it right now. I’ll come practice tomorrow, ok?”

“A girl, huh?” Jamison persists. He rubs his chin contemplatively. “They tryin’ to domesticate you?”

“Somethin’ like that. They said she’s—”

“Some of us,” Mako says slowly (which is the only way he ever says anything), “are trying to learn.”

“Learn!?” Jamison replies, aghast. “Alright, ya conch. Don’t pitch a wobbly over it. Jesse, we’ll nip out for durry after class and you can give me the drum.”

After class is dismissed, the three head for their usual smoking spot behind the music room, and Jesse explains his predicament with the so-called student ambassador. His friends manifest deep sympathy, but have no ideas for how he can escape it other than faking a serious illness, which Jesse vetoes for practical reasons. As they are talking, he gradually becomes aware of that melody floating out through the open windows of the music room. The same one he’d heard the other day.

He glances up at the open windows. “Who’s in the music room right now?”

“Dunno,” Jamison replies. “Probably some square practicing for a recital.”

“Speakin’ of squares, I better get goin’ now,” Jesse says, grinding his butt out beneath his boot. “Catch y’all fellas later.”

The music room is on the way to his calculus classroom, and as he passes the open door, Jesse glances inside. He stops dead in his tracks. There is a boy seated at the piano, who he has never seen before. A Japanese boy, about his own age, with a long, silky braid of black hair hanging over his shoulder. He’s wearing a uniform with the school’s coat of arms embroidered on the lapel, but it’s not the standard one everyone here wears. It’s styled more after the fashion of a kimono and hakama pants, than blazer and slacks.

The boy stops playing and looks up, right into Jesse’s eyes. Jesse’s mouth goes dry and he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He’d rather not look like he was staring, so he steps into the room as if he’d intended to come in anyway.

“Uh, howdy,” he says, with a sheepish grin.

Despite clearly having made eye contact with him, the boy looks startled and glances about him, then back at Jesse. Jesse advances and sticks out his hand to shake the boy’s.

“I’m Jesse,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt or nothin’. You, uh…you play real nice.”

The boy stares at his hand for a moment, then reaches out cautiously and takes it. His delicate hand feels like silk, cool and smooth in Jesse’s big, rough one.

“Hanzo,” he says quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Hanzo,” Jesse says affably.

“I am…pleased to make your acquaintance…Jesse,” Hanzo says slowly, pronouncing each word with meticulous care.

“Say, Hanzo, what was that song you was playin’ before? It’s been bouncin’ around my head like a jackrabbit on hot sand ever since I heard it the other day. It sounds familiar but I just can’t stick a name on it.”

Hanzo blinks uncomprehendingly at him for a moment, then a slight smile touches the corners of his lips. Jesse’s stomach does somersaults.

“Was it, perhaps…this song?” Hanzo asks.

He sets his tapered fingers to the white keys and begins a slow, melancholy refrain.

“Naw,” Jesse says, shaking his head decidedly. “That’s Moonlight Sonata. I like that one, too. But it ain’t the one I mean.”

This must have been the right thing to say, because the boy’s soft smile brightens a shade. He opens his mouth as if to speak again, but he is cut off by a sweet, female voice with a lilting Swiss-German accent.

“Jesse?” the voice calls. “Is that you?”

Jesse looks up to see a very pretty, very blonde girl, peering in at the doorway.

“Ah, Jesse. I thought so,” the girl smiles. “I am Angela. You were supposed to meet me before your calculus class, remember?”

“Shit,” Jesse mutters under his breath. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was just—”

“It is alright, but you must come quickly,” she says. “You are already late.”

Jesse looks apologetically at Hanzo, who nods, then he hops up and follows her away. He casts a longing glance at the music room door as they walk briskly down the hall.

“I did not know that you played piano,” she says cheerfully. “How long have you been playing?”

“Oh, I don’t really,” Jesse says. “My ma made me learn when I was little, but I ain’t played in a while.”

“Well, your Moonlight Sonata sounded lovely.”

They have arrived at the classroom by this time, and Jesse doesn’t have time to explain that it was Hanzo playing, so he lets it pass. He finds it difficult to daydream about Hanzo during class, with Angela nudging him and smiling encouragingly every time he looks like he isn’t paying attention, so he gives in and participates in the partner practice. He mostly just copies what she’s writing, till he notices an error in one of her equations, and solves it correctly on his paper.

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” she whispers. “Look, here is my answer.”

He nods and erases his equation to write it her way, with the error included. When the teacher reviews the exercise with the class, of course, they both miss that answer. Angela looks at him oddly, but she doesn’t mention it till after they are dismissed.

“Jesse, just a moment,” she says, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Why did you not tell me that you knew your answer was correct?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “It wouldn’ta been polite to argue about it, since you was only tryina help.”

“That is kind of you, but please do not sacrifice your grades to spare my feelings. I am so embarrassed that I gave you the incorrect solution.”

“It don’t make no nevermind to me,” he drawls, continuing down the hall. “I don’t care about my grades anyhow.”

“You do not…care?” she asks, walking beside him. “How can you not care about your grades?”

“Long as I pass, then what does it matter? High school’s high school, fancy-ass uniforms or no. Ain’t gonna change much for me.”

“But what about university? They will look at your transcripts and your grades will matter very much.”

“I ain’t goin’ to university,” Jesse says flatly.

“What do you mean, you are not going,” Angela laughs incredulously. “Of course you are going to university. Why else would you be at a preparatory academy?”

Jesse glances into the music room, hoping to see Hanzo, but the room is dark and empty.

“I’m only goin’ here cause Mr. Reyes is makin’ me,” he says. “The minute I graduate, I’m cuttin’ back to the States. My buddy’s cousin owns a bike shop. I was workin’ there ‘fore I come here and he says I can have my job any time I want to come back.”

Angela looks appropriately horrified. “You would prefer to work in a bicycle shop rather than pursue your education?”

“Naw, you don’t—I don’t mean bicycles, I mean motorcycles. I was a mechanic.”

“Oh,” she blinks. “Well, I do suppose there is a good income in that. Specialty mechanics are skilled laborers. But what about your music?”

“I don’t want to make playin’ music into a job,” Jesse says. “It’s too important to me. No better way to suck all the joy outta somethin’ than takin’ money to do it.”

“I had not thought of it that way,” Angela says. “I am very skilled at the violin, but I do it because my parents wish me to make something of it. I have never enjoyed playing for its own sake.”

“I’m sorry they doin’ that. You should be able to pick what you wanna do with your life.”

“That is a lovely sentiment, but I cannot simply abandon the violin in favor of another career now, after they have invested so much in me.”

“Why not?” Jesse says. “It’s only like, ten years give or take, dependin’ on when you started. The rest of your life’s the rest of your life. That’s a damn sight longer.”

“I suppose so,” she says, looking troubled.

Jesse notices her expression and feels a pang of guilt. “Listen, that ain’t none of my business. Sorry for givin’ you a hard time.”

“It is alright,” she says. “I simply did not expect to have my entire life’s focus challenged within an hour of meeting a person. Usually one at least waits until the second or third meeting.”

“I really am sorry,” Jesse says, turning to her. Then he stops short. “Wait a minute, you’re messin’ with me!”

“You catch on very quickly,” she grins. Then she tosses her blonde curls and continues down the hall. “Perhaps you are smarter than you look.”

“Aw, come on, that ain’t nice,” he laughs, trotting after her. “You sayin’ I don’t look smart? Hey, wait up!”

Angela is not turning out to be at all like what he’d expected. She’s funny and clever and seems like she has some real grit. Maybe it won’t be so bad, having her as a friend. They agree to meet after school to talk about extra-curricular activities, then he heads to his next class. At the appointed time, he meets her on the quad and bears being taken about and shown different clubs with as much politeness as he can muster. He has very little interest in any of them, however, and she gives up after the fourth. It doesn’t appear to bother her however, and they exchange phone numbers and part cheerfully, with a promise to meet up before calculus again.

 

 

After chemistry the next day, Jesse hurries over to the music room, hoping to see Hanzo before he meets Angela. He is disappointed not to find him there, but as he returns down he hall, he feels a tug on his sleeve. He turns to see the boy smiling up at him.

“Howdy Han—” he begins, but Hanzo places a finger over his lips and beckons to him.

He follows him down the hall and outside to the other side of the music room, where there is a narrow walkway leading to a disused iron livery gate, a relic from when the school had been a private manor house.

“Hey, where we goin’,” Jesse says, as the boy tugs him toward the gate. “I got class in a minute.”

Hanzo looks at him imploringly from beneath his long, black eyelashes. “Please come with me, Jesse. Such fine weather should not be wasted indoors.”

“Alright, then,” Jesse says, trying not to grin like an idiot. “But the gate’s locked. How we gonna get out?”

Hanzo flashes a sly smile and goes to the gate. Jesse watches in astonishment as he nimbly scales it and drops down on the other side. Jesse approaches the gate warily and places his hands on it. Hanzo stands laughing as he scrambles over with much less grace, and lands awkwardly before him.

“You think that’s funny, do ya?” Jesse says, as he dusts himself off and straightens his shirt.

“You are much larger than me,” Hanzo says, still laughing. “It should have been easy for you.”

“Well just cause I’m tall don’t mean I’m Spiderman, you squirt.”

“What is a squirt?” Hanzo asks, as they turn to walk down the sidewalk.

“It means a little fella,” Jesse says, eyeing him up and down. “Like you.”

“I am not little,” Hanzo says indignantly. “I am above the average height for my age.”

“You little to me,” Jesse says. “I bet I could carry you around if I took a notion to.”

“I suppose you could,” Hanzo says, casting a sidelong glance at him. “If let you.”

Jesse feels his face flush with heat, and he pretends to look about them to conceal it.

“So, where we goin’?” he asks. “You ain’t told me.”

“There is a scenic overlook nearby from which the view of the sea is quite lovely. Shall we go there?”

“Sounds good. There, uh…any chance of gettin’ a bite while we’re out enjoyin’ nature? We’re gonna miss lunch.”

Hanzo laughs again. “There is a tea shop that may have something, if you can only think of your stomach.”

“Hey, I’m a growin’ boy,” Jesse drawls, patting his flat, trim stomach. “You think I got this big starvin’ myself?”

Hanzo simply smiles and continues walking. They stroll through the quiet streets of the idyllic resort town, and up the hill to a small cliff overlooking the beach. At the top, there is a cluster of small shops selling sweets and souvenirs, and stalls offering various street cuisine. These are situated about a grassy common area with picnic tables.

“Well, look at all that,” Jesse says. “That’s sight more’n a tea shop, Hanzo.”

“I do not recall there being so much here,” Hanzo replies, looking flustered for some reason. “But I suppose I have not visited in quite some time.”

Jesse insists on buying lunch, so Hanzo sits while he orders. He comes back with okonomiyaki to share, and two bottles of cold green tea. Jesse opens the box and they sample the savory, omelet-like dish. Hanzo takes a few small, careful bites, then sets his chopsticks down. Jesse tells him to eat more, but he insists he is not hungry, so Jesse finishes the food gladly.

When the meal has been enthusiastically consumed, he disposes of the garbage, and they walk along the cliffside to a good vantage point. Hanzo steps up on a rock and looks out over the sea. Jesse gazes at him as he spreads his arms, letting the cool, balmy breeze run through his fingers and rustle his loose-fitting linen garments.

He turns to Jesse and smiles. “It is beautiful, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Jesse says dreamily. “Most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

Hanzo hops lightly down from the rock. “Let us walk a little more. You must tell me of yourself. How did you come to be in Japan?”

Jesse relates the tale of how he wound up at a music prep school in Japan as the two meander along the footpath beside the scenic coastal road. The scenery, however, is lost on Jesse, whose eyes are mainly occupied in stealing glances at his companion, who is listening with absorbed interest.

“Mr. Reyes is your father?” Hanzo says, when he has concluded.

“Yep,” Jesse sighs. “That’s what they tell me.”

“You are fortunate to have such a father. Mr. Reyes is a good man.”

“Is he, now,” Jesse says, not sounding quite convinced.

“He was very kind to me, after my parents passed away. But he always seemed so…sad,” Hanzo says softly. Then he smiles. “I am glad that he has you.”

“Me?” Jesse says, confused. “Why me?”

“You are his son. I am sure he will be much less lonely now that you are with him.”

“You think he’s lonely?”

“He only seemed so to me,” Hanzo shrugs. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

Just then, Jesse’s phone vibrates in his pocket. There is a message from Jamison (in addition to the several earlier messages from Angela, asking where he is and if he will not be in class).

“Aw, shit,” he says. “I forgot, I got practice. I’m sorry, Hanzo, I gotta get back. You want to do somethin’ with me tomorrow after school maybe?”

“I would like that,” Hanzo smiles. “I will walk with you. My home is on the way.”

They head back in the direction of the school till they reach the street that passes through Jesse’s neighborhood and over the hill into the downtown area, where Hanzo departs, with a promise to meet Jesse at the music room after his last class tomorrow. Jesse lingers for a moment and watches him as he walks away, then turns and continues toward school, to meet Jamison and Mako.

As he walks, and all through practice, in fact, Hanzo’s words about Mr. Reyes work on him. Maybe he is lonely. He don’t deserve to be sad and alone forever, even if he did abandon his only son and go off to live in Japan. Jesse wonders if that’s the reason he left in the first place. Maybe there was someone he loved so much he couldn’t live without ‘em. And maybe he can’t let anyone know he’s with that person for some reason. Like…for example…if they was both workin’ at some stuffy-ass private school that wouldn’t take kindly to it. And maybe they see each other every day and it breaks their hearts on account of they gotta pretend to just be coworkers and can’t never let anyone find out. That’d be kinda romantic, if it wasn’t old people, and therefore gross. And, as he reminds himself, he don’t give a damn anyway.

 

When he returns home from band practice (which had been more smoking and horsing around than actual practice), Mr. Reyes isn’t there yet. He makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then sprawls out on the living room floor to do his homework. He is just finishing the last of his calculus, when Mr. Reyes comes in, bearing armloads of grocery bags. Jesse gets up to help, and they carry the things to the kitchen together.

“How are things going with Miss Ziegler?” Mr. Reyes asks, as they begin to put the groceries away.

“Alright,” Jesse says. “We’re meetin’ before school tomorrow to go over my calculus homework.”

“And you’re still not interested in joining any of the extra-curricular clubs?”

“Naw, but I’m gettin’ along with Angela, like you wanted. I reckon that’s as good as it gets for now.”

“Fair enough,” Mr. Reyes says. “Thanks for giving her a chance.”

Jesse pulls a baby carrot out of the bag to munch on it. “Mr. Morrison comin’ over for dinner?”

“Hm? No,” Mr. Reyes says, looking confused. “Why—why do you ask?”

“I dunno,” Jesse shrugs. “Seems like an awful lot of food for just us. You should invite him.”

Mr. Reyes frowns. “You want me to invite the principal over for dinner? Are you feeling alright? Let me feel your forehead. Do you have a fever?”

“I ain’t got a fever, you old hen,” Jesse laughs, ducking away from the outstretched hand. “Come on, invite him. Unless you was gonna sneak out and see him after dinner, anyhow.”

Mr. Reyes stands there with his mouth open, blinking at him.

“I wasn’t going to _sneak out_ ,” he says, his cheeks coloring despite his dusky complexion. “I was just about to tell you he and I are meeting tonight to go over the construction plans for the new music room. How did you know?”

“I had a feeling,” Jesse grins, through his mouthful of carrot.

“Alright…I’ll call him then,” Mr. Reyes says, eyeing his son doubtfully. He is absolutely mystified by this sudden one-eighty in the boy’s behavior. He watches Jesse saunter into the living room and flop onto the sofa with the TV remote, then shakes his head. “Fucking teenagers.”

Mr. Morrison accepts the invitation, and dinner passes far more agreeably than Mr. Reyes had expected. More agreeably than it has since Jesse had first come to live with his father, in fact. Jesse is polite to Mr. Morrison and even participates in the conversation. The three men wind up lingering over the excellent meal, chatting comfortably for nearly an hour. When they’re finished, Jesse hops up to clear the dishes without being asked.

“What the fuck has gotten into that kid?” his father says, looking after Jesse as he carries plates and cups into the kitchen. “You think he’s on drugs?”

“If this is a side-effect of drugs, then the entire Just Say No campaign was a crime against humanity,” Mr. Morrison laughs. “I think it’s something else, though.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I think it’s possible that Jesse has met someone. Maybe someone who makes him feel good about himself and inspires him to want to try harder.”

“Ohhhh,” Mr. Reyes says, with a knowing nod. “You’re a sly devil, Jack. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Nope. If they could tell I was a sly devil, I wouldn’t be very sly, now would I.”

“Well, I’m onto you now, Morrison, so don’t try anything shady.”

“No promises. Hey, I have the music room blueprints in my car. Do you want to just go over them here?”

“Sure.”

While Mr. Morrison goes to the car to fetch the blueprints, Jesse starts a pot of coffee brewing, which causes Mr. Reyes to cross himself and mutter a prayer in Spanish. Mr. Morrison comes back and rolls out the large paper on the table, and he and Mr. Reyes set to work examining it.

“Why they tearin’ down the music room anyhow?” Jesse asks, setting two steaming mugs on the table.

“Oh, thanks Jesse,” Mr. Morrison says, picking up a mug “It’s just old. The foundation is solid, but the walls aren’t insulated and the windows are still single-paned. It’s an energy efficiency nightmare, and the school board wants to start going green.”

“When’s it comin’ down?”

“The day after graduation. The crew needs the entire summer to get it ready by fall term.”

“That’s too bad,” Jesse says. “I like that room. But I guess I won’t be around to use it, so it won’t matter much. I’ma go and finish my homework. Night, Mr. Morrison.”

“Night, Jesse,” Mr. Morrison says.

“Night,” Mr. Reyes echoes. After Jesse’s door is shut, he turns to his friend. “Coffee, Jack. And he said goodnight like a person. He better not be having sex with that girl.”

Over the following weeks, Mr. Reyes observes Jesse’s behavior with increasing astonishment. His grades improve drastically, he stops sulking and never slams his bedroom door anymore, and even cooks dinner himself a few times. He still won’t wear his damned tie with his school uniform, but Mr. Morrison tells Mr. Reyes to let it go and focus on the positives, so he doesn’t hassle him about it.

He does try to drop hints about what a nice girl Angela is and even suggests they have her over for dinner one of these nights, but Jesse is infuriatingly nonchalant about all of it, only saying “Yeah, she sure is,” or “That sounds nice,” or “For real, get out, I’m tryina take a shower.”

Jesse is blithely unaware of his father’s error concerning the placement of his son’s affection, and thinks nothing of it. He is busy spending every moment he can with Hanzo, which means he spends a large portion of time strolling along the beach, or occupying some other place close to the sea. Hanzo has an insatiable desire to be in and near the water, which makes Jesse laugh and call him a mermaid, and earns him a splash of cold salt-water in the face.

Meanwhile, Jesse’s show with Jamison and Mako is swiftly approaching, and is turning into a bigger deal than they’d anticipated. This is chiefly due to the fact that Angela has become something of an incongruous fourth member of their little crew. Jesse likes the fact that she doesn’t turn her nose up at Jamison and Mako, and in fact seems to be rather charmed by their cartoonish antics.

Of course, when she found out about their impending performance, she had immediately taken the matter in hand. She got a hold of the dance hall owner to inquire about occupant capacity, fire exits, and the sound system, then set to work promoting the show. She had flyers and posters printed and got Mr. Morrison’s permission to hang them at school. This had heretofore been prohibited, but she gave him such an inspirational speech regarding Jesse’s self-esteem and how much it would mean to him, that he couldn’t help but capitulate. The faculty initially objects to having the posters hung on the walls, as this is contrary to tradition. However, they are quietly informed by Mr. Morrison that they are also invited, and that there will be an open bar for persons over the legal drinking age, which shuts them up very effectively. As it stands, at least a hundred students have already joined the Jesse and the Junkers Facebook page, and all have marked “attending” on the event invite.

As far as his father and Mr. Morrison can see, the prospect of the show really is having a positive impact on Jesse’s motivation to engage with his peers. He talks to Angela constantly, and is much more enthusiastic about going to school. He has made Mr. Reyes coffee in the morning on three separate occasions, and often rides to school with him rather than walking alone. He has even begun to do the unthinkable, and bring his guitar to school to practice. Whether this is prompted by the actual need to brush up on the songs they plan to play, or the fact that he very much enjoys the company of his rehearsal partner, is anyone’s guess.

He and Hanzo meet nearly every day after school in the music room, playing in harmony or trading melodies back and forth, until some teacher or another comes and says it’s after six, go home for god’s sake. They walk home together every evening, and Hanzo always leaves Jesse at the crossroads where the main road intersects the street on which Jesse lives, just before the hill.

The night before the show, however, Jesse has something specific he wants to talk to Hanzo about. It has been growing in his mind for quite some time, and he is beginning to feel that if he doesn’t say something soon, he will explode under the pressure of it. By the time they reach the usual parting spot, he hasn’t quite mustered the courage, and insists on walking Hanzo the rest of the way to buy himself a little time.

“You may walk me to the end of my street, then,” Hanzo says archly. “But only because you are going to be a famous musician, and I wish to be seen with you.”

“Hey, I’ll take it,” Jesse grins, holding out his arm like a Victorian gentleman. “Shall we?”

“You are very ridiculous, Jesse,” Hanzo laughs, but he does lay his hand on the proffered arm.

Jesse finds that he still hasn’t quite got his gumption up, and they walk in silence up the hill. When they reach the cul-de-sac at the top of the hill, Hanzo stops and turns to face Jesse.

“This is the end of my street,” he says, with a bow. “Goodnight, Jesse.”

“Hey hold up a sec,” Jesse says, catching him by the wrist. “I wanted to tell you somethin’.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I wanted to thank you for helpin’ me practice up my guitar.”

“You are welcome. It has been my pleasure.”

“There’s somethin’ else,” Jesse says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shifting his feet awkwardly. “I just wanted to say—I just…I like you, Hanzo.”

“I like you, too, Jesse,” Hanzo smiles.

“Oh. Well, thank you,” Jesse says, going a bit red in the cheeks. “But I don’t think…I don’t think you’re gettin’ it exactly. It’s a lot more’n that. I never felt this way about no one before. What I’m tryina say is, I—I…” he trails off, still not quite able to get the words out.

“Jesse,” Hanzo says softly, laying his hands on Jesse’s shoulders. “I love you, too.”

Before Jesse has had time to recover from this first thunderclap, Hanzo has rocked up on tiptoe and is pressing his soft, pouting lips to Jesse’s own. Jesse’s heart pounds in his chest and his head spins. After far too short a moment, the lips are drawn away and Hanzo is trotting off down the street.

“Goodnight, Jesse!” he calls behind him. “I will see you tomorrow evening at your show!”

“Night!” Jesse manages to call back, in a trembling voice. “Tomorrow! Don’t forget!”

He watches Hanzo till he turns and enters a lantern-lit walkway, leading to the door of the massive estate at the center of the cul-de-sac. It occurs to Jesse that this is the very house he’d run to for shelter when he’d been caught in the rain that time. He’d wondered if the man he’d met lived alone in that big place. Genji was his name. But Hanzo said his parents had passed, so he must be an uncle or something. He’d never mentioned living with an uncle, but he never talks about his family, and Jesse is far too blissfully happy to think too much about it, anyway.

He knows logically that he is walking home, but if it is on the solid earth with his own feet, he doesn’t feel it. He is soaring through the clouds, buoyed up by the sensation of the softest, sweetest lips in the world still lingering on his. He steps in the front door humming a tune to himself and bids a cheerful “howdy” to Mr. Morrison and Mr. Reyes, who are seated at the table, as he hangs up his hat and removes his boots.

“Hey, Jesse, you’re in a good mood,” Mr. Reyes says. “You excited about your show tomorrow?”

“Sure am,” Jesse says, as he saunters in and takes a seat. “It’s gonna be fuckin’ killer.”

“You sure have been practicing hard,” Mr. Morrison smiles. “The music department staff tell me they’ve heard you in there playing guitar and piano.”

“I been practicin’ guitar,” Jesse says. “I got, uh…a friend helpin’ me out. He plays piano.”

“Is your friend going to play at the show?” Mr. Reyes asks.

“Naw, we ain’t a piano kinda band. He’s comin’ though. I’d like you to meet him.”

“That’ll be nice,” Mr. Reyes says. “Hey, take some broccoli, too. You need to eat more vegetables.”

Mr. Morrison and Jesse burst out laughing simultaneously.

“What?” Mr. Reyes demands. “He does need to eat his vegetables. He’s a growing—oh. Oh god, it’s happened. I really have become an old hen.”

He buries his face in his hands and breaks into laughter as well. Jesse reaches over and pats him sympathetically on the back.

“It’s ok, pa,” he says, still laughing. “You’re allowed to be a old hen sometimes. I won’t tell no one.”

He grabs his glass and goes to the kitchen to refill it, so he doesn’t see Mr. Reyes look up at Mr. Morrison with actual tears in his eyes. Nor does he see Mr. Morrison take his hand and squeeze it, nodding and wiping away a tear of his own. By the time he’s back with his beverage, no sign of the odd exchange remains, and both men are smiling cheerfully.

Mr. Reyes insists upon clearing up the dinner things, so Jesse hangs out in the living room chattering to Mr. Morrison about all the people who are coming to the show and the songs they’re going to play. Then his phone rings with a call from Angela, and he trots off to his room talking excitedly, blissfully unaware of the tender wound he has bestowed on one of the other men in the house. That “pa” he had let fall so easily from his lips just a short while ago was the first time in his life that Jesse had called his father anything other than Mr. Reyes.

 

 

The night of the Jesse and the Junkers show arrives at last. Nearly the entire student body shows up for the event, along with most of the faculty, to the mingled pleasure and distress of the dance hall owner, who had not counted on being inundated with quite so many young guests, nor accounted for the alcohol tolerance of high school teachers. In the end, however, the evening goes off without a hitch, and is instantly canonized as the most famous school event in the history of the academy.

Jesse and his friends play marvelously, the teachers get pleasantly tipsy, everyone under the age of thirty dances, the owner of the hall makes a fortune in entry fees, and the event is the talk of the town. Angela is delighted to have organized such a wildly successful and incident-free gathering, and Jamison and Mako (who go by the stage names Junkrat and Roadhog respectively) revel in their new social status, being rocketed suddenly to the top of everyone’s invite list. The band is even asked to play several highly sought-after parties this summer.

The only person who does not seem to be over the moon is Jesse. He doesn’t hang around to socialize with the other students after the show, and the next week finds him increasingly sulky and withdrawn. His father and Mr. Morrison confer on the problem, but they think it’s best to let him have some space for the time being.

Jesse wanders in a grey haze, jilted and bereft. Abandoned without explanation by the boy who had only just professed his love to him. At first he’d just been hurt and angry that Hanzo hadn’t come to his show and hadn’t even bothered to come see him and explain. But more than a week has gone by and he hasn’t been in any of the places they usually meet. He passes the music room each day with a growing sense of alarm. He tells himself Hanzo is the one who done wrong, so he should be the one to come and set it right, but he’s becoming desperate. That evening after dinner, he tells Mr. Reyes he’s taking a walk and heads for the mansion on the hill.

Once he is standing before the door of the grand and stoic house, his courage nearly deserts him. He takes a few deep breaths, then knocks. He waits for several long minutes. The mansion remains still and silent, and the door remains unanswered. Just as he turns to go, however, the door opens, and Genji stands looking at him curiously.

“Ah, I remember you,” he says, at last. “You are Jesse, the young man who smoked and chatted with me during the rainstorm, yes? What can I do for you?”

“Howdy, Mr. uh…Genji,” Jesse says. “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry to bother you again. I was just lookin’ for Hanzo. He ain’t been around in while and I wanted to check in on him.”

The polite smile freezes on Genji’s face. “I…I beg your pardon?”

“I thought Hanzo lived here,” Jesse says, glancing about uneasily. He’d been absolutely certain he saw Hanzo enter this house, but the look on the man’s face is not promising.

Genji’s dark-grey eyes harden warningly, but his voice remains cool and measured. “I do not know what you mean by this, Jesse, but I assure you that such a joke is in very poor taste.”

“I wadn’t jokin’ sir,” Jesse says pleadingly. “I’da swore I seen him go into this house the other night, but I guess I got the wrong place. I didn’t mean no offense.”

Jesse’s sweet, earnest face softens the older man somewhat. He gives a slight bow. “I apologize for my hasty response. It seems that this is merely an unfortunate coincidence.”

“Coincidence, sir?”

“Your friend appears to share a name with my brother.”

“You got a brother named Hanzo?”

“I had. He died many years ago.”

“Aw shit, I’m real sorry,” Jesse says contritely. “I musta give you a powerful shock askin’ around for him like that.”

“It should be easier for me to hear his name spoken, by now,” Genji replies, with such a look of pain in his eyes, that Jesse’s heart nearly breaks. “But the anniversary of his death has me in mind of him, and I was oversensitive.”

“Sometimes…just talkin’ about the person you lost helps,” Jesse says gently. “It’s hard for me to talk about my ma, but once I do, I always feel better.”

Genji considers him closely for a moment. “Jesse, I have just prepared tea. Would you like to come in and share a cup?”

“Well, I suppose I can do that,” Jesse says. “Thank you, Genji.”

Jesse steps inside and follows the man through the cavernous living room. The place is richly but sparsely furnished in the Japanese style, and everything about it is tranquil, silent, and cold. They sit on cushions before a low table at the end of the room, and Genji pours tea from a small, black teapot into little black cups. Jesse bows properly and accepts one.

Genji gazes into his cup. “My brother taught me to make tea. After our parents passed away, we would take tea together every evening. Then I would sit and listen while he played piano or koto.”

“That sounds real nice,” Jesse says, sipping at his tea. “Y’all were close, huh?”

“We were. Very close. When he passed away as well, I was left alone.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind my askin’.”

“He was very fond of the sea. We would often swim together. One day he wished to go, but I refused and he went alone. He drowned.”

“Christ,” Jesse breathes. “That’s so sad. I’m so sorry, Genji. I…I hope you don’t blame yourself. It wadn’t your fault.”

“I did blame myself for many years,” Genji says. “To the point at which I could no longer bear to attend school where we had been together, so I departed and finished my education in Tokyo. My primary residence is there, as well. But this house is full of the memories of my family, so I have it maintained as it was then. I come back every year for the spring season, to honor him on the anniversary of his death.”

Jesse can’t think of any response to this heartbreaking tale, so he lowers his head respectfully and sits silent, sipping his tea. When they are finished, Genji replaces the tea things on a black lacquered tray and rises.

“Would you care to look at the house?” he offers. “It is an excellent example of traditional Japanese architecture. Magazines have come to photograph it often, and it has been used as a location for a feature film.”

“Sure,” Jesse smiles. “I’d like that.”

He has very little interest in architecture, and is getting anxious to continue his search for Hanzo, but this seems to be cheering Genji up so much, he can’t really refuse. He nods and makes polite comments as Genji shows him around downstairs rooms, which include a vast music parlor with a gorgeous grand piano. Then he follows him upstairs, where there are numerous traditional Japanese bedrooms with tatami mat floors and sliding rice paper doors.

“This was Hanzo’s room,” Genji says, sliding open the last door. “The servants clean it, but it is otherwise kept as he left it. I sometimes find consolation in the impression of his presence.”

The room is not very different from the others, but for the bookshelf containing many books, and the little writing desk, on which there is a framed photograph. Jesse’s eyes pass over it as he looks about, then snap back to it. His blood freezes. Without asking permission, he crosses the room in two strides and snatches up the photo. He stands there staring at it, heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears.

There are two boys in this picture. One is Genji, but much younger, and one is Hanzo. His Hanzo. Not a boy who looks like him, but _him_. Even down to the three little freckles below his left eye, just barely visible, but undeniably there. The photograph is faded with age, but it could have been taken yesterday. 

“What’s goin’ on here?” Jesse says hoarsely. He thrusts the picture toward Genji, almost accusingly. “What the fuck is this?”

Genji frowns. “That is Hanzo and myself, the first day of school in his senior year. What is wrong with you? Are you ill?”

“Naw,” Jesse says, shaking his head. The floor suddenly seems to be tilting beneath his feet, so he grabs hold of the door frame to support himself. “Naw, this ain’t…this can’t be your brother. This is my Hanzo. This is the Hanzo I know.”

“No, Jesse,” Genji says, in a tight, strained voice. “You are mistaken. My brother died, twenty years ago, last Saturday.”

“I know this is him, Genji,” Jesse insists, growing increasingly agitated. “This is his eyes, his smile— I’d know his face anywhere. We been together ‘most every day for months. I know it like the back of my hand.”

“You…love him. The Hanzo that you are seeking.”

Jesse nods, tears welling up in his eyes. “I do love him. I love him and I gotta find him. I can’t stay here no more, I gotta go.”

“Wait, Jesse,” Genji says. “Please. I must show you something.”

He goes to the dresser and opens a drawer, from which he draws an old, tattered and yellowed booklet of sheet music, with ornate scrollwork printed on the cover.

Jesse looks at it, then back at Genji. “I don’t get it. What’s some old sheet music gotta do with me?”

“I thought…I thought he was imagining it. Or going mad,” Genji says softly. “But perhaps there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy.”

He opens the book and leafs through the age-stained pages, till he comes to one on which someone has made notes in black ink, nearly as old as the book itself. They are in Japanese, which Jesse doesn’t read, but Genji translates them to him.

“This song contains the keys that will open the door to your destiny. The first face you look upon will be that of your true love. To all others, you will walk as a spirit, unseen and unheard. The slow keys move forward, the quick keys return.”

He turns to another page, where there are more notes. These are newer, but still faded with age, and though he doesn’t read Japanese, Jesse instantly recognizes Hanzo’s hand.

“What’s it say,” he asks. “What is it?”

“These are hiragana. This means ‘destiny’,” Genji says, pointing to a word. “This, ‘love.’ And these katakana make the name ‘Jyeshii.’ That is, Jesse.”

Jesse clutches his hair with both hands, as if trying to physically force his thoughts into order. “I don’t understand. Why’s my name wrote in that book in his handwriting if he he died and he ain’t here. This ain’t funny at all, Genji. Tell me where he is.”

“I would not make light of such a matter,” Genji says. He looks up at Jesse, and his face is pale and grave. “I did not believe him then, but I should have. I believe him now. Hanzo told me he had discovered a way to travel to another time. He said that by playing these notes on the piano at school, he was able to go far into the future, where he had met his destiny. His true love. I laughed at this at first, but I became angry when he would not desist in the tale, and he stopped speaking to me of it. I knew he believed it still, and I began to quietly fear for his sanity. I asked Mr. Reyes to speak to him and perhaps—”

“Mr. Reyes,” Jesse interrupts. “Wait, why? What do you mean?”

“Mr. Reyes was Hanzo’s favorite instructor. He looked after us when our parents died, and always offered sympathy and encouragement. He grieved deeply at Hanzo’s death. After I departed for Tokyo, he sent word to me saying he wished me well and would visit someday. He also informed me that he could not stay in a place so full of sorrow, and that he was going back to the US. I did not hear from him for several years. But after Mr. Morrison came on as principal, Mr. Reyes returned to act as Dean of Students.”

“You ain’t been a student there in twenty years, though. How d’you know so much about the school and shit that’s goin’ on there?”

“Shimada Academy belongs to the Shimada family,” Genji says. “As the sole surviving heir, I sit on the board of trustees.”

Jesse’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, y’all are Shimadas? My pa never told me nothin’ about knowin’ y’all.”

“Your…pa?” Genji asks, bewildered.

“Mr. Reyes. Mr. Reyes is my father.”

“Ah, then you can ask him about this,” Genji says energetically, shaking the sheet music. “I know that he spoke to him and that Hanzo showed it to him. Jesse…you may have a chance to save him.”

“What are you sayin’? Save him how?”

“You know this to be Hanzo.” Genji holds up the photo of himself and Hanzo again. “You believe this to be the face of the one you love.”

“I know it is,” Jesse says resolutely. “It ain’t possible but…I know it’s him.”

“And you can read sheet music and play piano, correct?”

“Yeah, I can.”

“Come with me,” Genji says.

Jesse follows him back downstairs to the music parlor, where he takes a pen from from a drawer and begins to write hastily in the book in English.

“I am translating the words for you,” he says. “They are instructions. I believe that if you follow them, you will find him. But you must do exactly as it is written, and you must use the piano in the music room at the academy. Hanzo discovered this book hidden inside it. He believed the piano and the song to be linked somehow, and he said it did not work when played on another instrument.”

Jesse balks. “But…if this is gonna take me, like…back in time—which it ain’t, cause that’s fuckin’ crazy talk—but if it is, I might be erasin’ myself. If I find Hanzo and save him, my pa won’t leave for the States and I won’t never get born.”

“Perhaps,” Genji says, frowning thoughtfully. He considers this for a long moment, then shakes his head. “I do not claim to know the rules of such things. But it does not seem to me that Hanzo found you by accident. If you are his destiny, then perhaps you are meant to bring him here, to this time. If he was only to die soon anyway, nothing will materially change.”

“If it’s his destiny to come here, why can’t he do it himself? Why hasn’t he come back?”

“You have not seen him since last Friday, yes?”

“Yeah. He was supposed to come to my show Saturday, but he wadn’t there. And he ain’t been around since. That’s why I come lookin’ for him.”

“Saturday was the twentieth anniversary of his death. It is possible that in his time, he has already…he has already died. Perhaps one can only travel between two distinct timelines and when he traveled here, he placed this one in parallel with his own.”

“Then why didn’t he stay?” Jesse says, choking back tears. “He coulda just stayed.”

“He could not have known of his death, Jesse. He would not have abandoned me to stay here.”

“This is…fuckin’ crazy,” Jesse says, shaking his head. “It’s all nonsense and I think maybe I’m losin’ my mind. Can’t none of this be real. It just can’t. Life don’t work that way and there’s no such thing as magic time travelin’ pianos.”

“If you love him, that is a risk you must be willing to take,” Genji says quietly. He shuts the book of sheet music and places it in Jesse’s hands, along with the photo of himself and Hanzo. “You need not decide now. Go and speak to your father. He may have some wisdom to offer that I cannot.”

Jesse takes the things and says goodbye to Genji in a numb, half-dazed state. He walks slowly toward home, his head whirling and buzzing with everything he’s heard. It ain’t possible. He knows that. Of course it ain’t. There’s no such thing as magic or time travel or any of that destiny bullshit. But…

But.

Something in him will not let it go. Try as he might, he finds that he cannot simply dismiss it as nonsense. When he thinks of what Genji has told him, he finds that amid he chaos of his mind, there is another note. A profound music that resonates with something in the core of his being. Truth.

Chills run up his spine and prickle over his body. It’s all true. He knows it to be true as sure as he is standing here. Going home to talk to his father about it would only delay him, and maybe even sway him from his purpose. He must do this while this glimpse of the secret fire is still blazing in his mind. Before the veil of the mundane falls back over his eyes and blinds him to wonder. It is now or never.

Abruptly, he alters his trajectory, headed for the school. As he walks, he digs his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.

“Hey, Jamison. Yep. Mako with you? Good, I need your help. We’re gonna break into the school.”

 

About twenty minutes later, Jesse is waiting in the back parking lot of the school, when Mako and Jamison pull up in Mako’s mother’s minivan. The two hop out and say hello, as Jamison slides the back door open.

“Hello, Jesse,” Angela says, climbing out and smiling brightly.

“Uh, hey Angela,” Jesse frowns. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Jamison and Mako called and said you needed help. I want to help.”

“They tell you what we’re doin’?”

“No, but it is well after school hours, they are dressed in black, and Jamison keeps giggling. I assume we are going to break into the school.”

Jesse blinks at her incredulously. “And you wanted to help with that?”

“Oh, please, Jesse,” she says, tossing her blonde curls. “I am not such a goody-goody as you all seem to think. I can commit petty misdemeanors to assist a friend as well as anyone.”

“Alright, the more the merrier, then,” Jesse laughs. “Mako, you got your kit?”

Mako holds up a black tool bag.

“Good. We gotta pick them locks on the side door there to get to the music room. That’s where y’all come in. You gotta distract the security guard long enough for me play this song.” He shows them the sheet music. “Be about three minutes or so, far as I can reckon.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jamison objects. “You want us to break into school so you can play a song? You’re off your nut, mate! Do it tomorrow when the place is open.”

“Naw, I can’t risk anyone seein’. I know it sounds crazy but you gotta trust me, ok?” Jesse says urgently. “I gotta do this now. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Life and death for whom?” Angela wants to know.

“Hanzo,” Jesse says.

“Who is Hanzo?” his three friends ask in unison.

“Angela, you remember when you and me first met and I was late for class cause I was in the music room?” Jesse asks, to which Angela nods. “Hanzo was the boy who was sittin’ with me. He was the one playin’ Moonlight Sonata.”

Angela frowns. “Jesse…there was no one sitting with you. You were alone.”

“You a hundred percent certain? Like, you’d swear on your life you ain’t seen him?”

“I know what I saw, Jesse,” Angela says, with an uneasy laugh. “I would have noticed someone sitting beside you.”

“That seals it,” Jesse says triumphantly. “You ain’t seen him, and that means it’s all true. So we gotta do this. I gotta save him and you gotta help me.”

“Alright,” Angela shrugs. “It sounds reasonable to me.”

“That sounds reasonable to you?” Jamison asks, nearly beside himself.

“Of course not,” Angela retorts. “But it is clearly important to Jesse, so I don’t care. I am in.”

“Same,” Mako grunts.

“Fine, we’ll do it,” Jamison grumbles. “Let’s go, Roadie. Make with the jimmying.”

The four companions crouch around the back door and Mako proceeds to tackle the lock. After a few minutes, Jamison begins to tap his foot impatiently. After a few more minutes, he sits down and lights a cigarette. Mako continues struggling with the lock, and Jesse is beginning to losing hope.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Angela says, snatching the screwdriver from his hand. “Get out of the way.”

Mako gets out of the way, and the three boys look on in undisguised awe as she inserts the screwdriver and pick, makes a few deft twists, and the thing pops open.

“There we are,” she smiles, as she gets to her feet. “Easy as pie.”

“I—I think I’m in love,” Jamison intones, clutching his heart. “Miss Ziegler, would you—”

Angela rolls her eyes. “Not in a million years. Let’s go.”

The four of them shuffle rapidly down the hall, keeping on the lookout for the school’s security guard. When they reach the music room, it is closed and locked, and Angela has to employ her rather singular skill again. Just as they get inside, they hear the footsteps of the guard coming around the corner.

“Alright, Jesse,” Angela whispers. “You’re on. You two, we are going to have to give him quite a show. Follow my lead, alright?”

Mako and Jamison nod. Jesse gives Angela’s hand a grateful squeeze, then she steps out of the room.

“Help!” she wails, at the top of her lungs. “I am being chased by these ruffians!”

Then she takes off sprinting down the hall, followed rapidly by Mako and Jamison who carry on like banshees, whooping and bellowing as they chase her. Jesse hears the security guard shout and sees him dash after them past the darkened music room, then he hurries to the piano. As his friends are capering about, they hear the piano begin, echoing down the empty halls. The notes are staccato and rather clumsily picked out at first, but it builds energy and speed and grows louder and louder. The security guard stops and turns around.

“Oi!” Jamison shouts. “Better catch us or the girl gets it!”

“Give it a rest, Fawkes,” the guard snaps. “Why are you three creating a diversion? Who’s in there?”

“Uh, no one,” Angela attempts. “You must be hearing things. Do you two hear anything?”

“Nope,” Mako grunts.

“Piano!” Jamison blurts. “I mean—no.”

“Cute,” the guard says, walking back toward the music room, brandishing his flashlight.

“Aw come on, Bob,” Jamison pleads, as the three hurry after him. “You can’t go in there. It could be dangerous. It could be, uh…a gang of rogue pianists, out for blood.”

“Rogue pianists?” Angela hisses, smacking him on the arm. “You are an idiot.”

Abruptly, in the middle of a frantic refrain, the music cuts off. The three friends look at each other and speed their pace, pushing past the security guard, who doesn’t seem that invested in stopping them at this point.

He follows them into the music room and looks around. “There’s no one here.”

“Thank you for pointing that out, Bob,” Jamison smirks. “What are you, the narrator?”

“The windows are all shut and locked,” Angela says. “And he couldn’t have gone out the door without us seeing him.”

“Maybe he is hiding,” Mako offers.

“Who?” the security guard demands irritably.

“Jesse,” Angela replies. “Do try and keep up, Bob. Look around, everyone. Where could he be hiding?”

Her three male companions glance about at the music stands and chairs, which offer nothing in the way of cover for a six foot tall young man. They look back at her.

“Exactly,” Angela says. “So what has happened?”

“He has vanished!” Jamison proclaims, raising one finger in the air like a television detective.

“You kids better get explaining real quick, or I am calling parents,” Bob says. “Miss Ziegler, what exactly are you three doing here?”

“I would love to explain,” Angela says sweetly. “But the truth is, we do not actually know. We were supposed to distract you while our friend played a song on the piano. That was all we were told. We did so, and now we are here.”

“But where is your friend?” Bob demands.

“ _Heilige mutter Gottes_ ,” Angela sighs, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. “You have just heard me say we do not know.”

“Listen here, missy,” Bob says, putting his hands on his hips. “I don’t know what you three are trying to pull, but—what…what the hell?”

Bob’s perplexed interjection is in response to something that has suddenly begun to happen in the room. Though the windows are all closed tight, there is a sudden gust of wind, which grows in strength and begins to whirl like a tornado, knocking over music stands and sucking up papers in its spinning vortex. Then there is a sudden discordant crash of piano keys, as two sets of hands appear on them.

Angela, Jamison, Mako, and Bob all stand blinking in utter disbelief at Jesse, who has materialized before their eyes, seated at the piano beside a Japanese boy with a long, silky braid of black hair. Jesse hops up and takes the boy’s hand, who stands gracefully and smiles up at him.

“Howdy, fellas,” Jesse grins at his friends. “Angela, Mako, Jamison, I’d like you to meet Hanzo. Hanzo, these are my friends. Oh, hey Bob, how’s it goin’?”

 

 


End file.
